Jeff was small back then, barely eight years old, thin arms, messy hair that always seemed to get in his eyes. His sister, Lisa Hardy, towered over him in the way older siblings do, not just in height but in presence. She was seventeen, full of quiet strength, and the kind of stubbornness that made people think twice before picking a fight.
The Hardys lived in a different town then. The streets were narrower, the houses a little too close to each other, and everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. Jeff didn't have many friends. Not because he didn't want them, but because he was… different.
He was a child with Amnesia—memories that should have been simple and natural for an eight-year-old just weren't there. His days often felt like a puzzle with missing pieces. And kids his age… well, kids could be cruel.
They called him "Forgetter," "Empty Head," or worse. He was very weak in studies. Even teachers makes fun of him. Although, he was somehow good at mathematics.
They'd laugh when he didn't remember something from the day before, or when he'd stare too long trying to place a familiar face. But whenever the teasing started, Lisa would be there. Stepping in front of him, eyes sharp and voice like a blade.
"You want to mess with someone? Mess with me," she'd say, her tone daring anyone to take that offer. Most of the time, they didn't.
Lisa was the kind of sister who'd walk him to and from school every single day, no matter how tired she was. She'd carry his bag when it got too heavy, help him with homework even if it took hours, and never once made him feel stupid for forgetting.
Home wasn't easy either. Their mother was… unwell. Mental illness had taken her into a world none of them could reach. Some days she would sit by the window for hours, speaking softly to people who weren't there. Other days she wouldn't speak at all. Jeff didn't understand it back then, but he could see the sadness in Lisa's eyes every time their mother drifted further away.
And yet, their father never left her. He still loved her, looking at her the way other men looked at women they were meeting for the first time. It was quiet, unwavering devotion. He'd brush her hair, make her tea, and speak to her as if nothing had changed.
For Jeff, those days were a mix of confusion and comfort. Confusion because the world seemed too big, too complicated for him to understand. Comfort because, no matter what, Lisa was always there.
One afternoon, Jeff was sitting on the front steps, knees pulled to his chest, watching a group of boys kick a ball down the street. They were whispering and laughing. He knew it was about him.
Lisa stepped out of the house, brushing crumbs from her dress. She didn't say a word at first, just sat beside him. Then she leaned close, her voice low.
"You know something, Jeff? The world calls you strange and priceless until it needs what only you can give. The moment you embrace your difference is the moment you stop apologizing for being alive."
Jeff looked at her, not fully understanding, but believing every word.
....
The afternoon was warm, the kind of warmth that made the garden smell alive. The sun filtered through the leaves, touching the earth where little Jeff sat in the dirt, legs folded, watching his mother work. She was planting flowers, her hands deep in the soil, a smile tugging softly at her lips.
Jeff, just eight years old, held a tiny wooden sword his father had carved for him. He poked it into the ground as if fighting invisible enemies. Then he stopped, looking at his mother with bright, serious eyes.
"Mom," he said, "when I grow up… I'm gonna be like Dad. I'll be a knight. But I won't fight for kings or gold. I'll fight for useless people, the ones no one cares about. I'll be a hero… not because of what I do, but because of my heart."
His mother froze for a moment, her fingers still buried in the soil. She turned slowly, eyes meeting his. There was something in her gaze. A Pride, but also something heavier, deeper, almost aching.
"A hero of the heart." she whispered, the words tasting like hope on her tongue.
She set down her tools, wiping dirt from her hands onto her skirt, and then, without warning, she scooped Jeff up into her arms. She spun him in the middle of the garden, laughter spilling from her lips, the flowers and the sunlight blurring around them.
"My son," she said between breaths, "my brave, little knight… the leader of the whole world someday. People will follow you not because you command them, but because you love them. Conquer the world by heart not blades."
Jeff giggled, holding onto her neck, but he didn't laugh at her words. He believed them—believed that she truly saw something in him that he couldn't see in himself yet.
She set him down gently, kneeling so her face was level with his. Her hands cupped his cheeks, dirt smudged on his skin.
"You'll have to be strong," she said softly, "because the world will try to break your heart. But that's why they'll need you, Jeff. That's why you'll win."
The garden felt quiet after that, almost too quiet. Somewhere far away, a crow called. She went back to planting flowers, but every so often, she'd glance at him and smile like she was already seeing the man he would become.
And Jeff, sitting there in the dirt, didn't know that this moment would root itself deeper in him than any dream.
The days before it happened felt like another life, warm, simple, safe. Jeff's family had been doing well. His mother's laughter still floated in the house, she was like the sun of the family to run the ecosystem.
His father worked hard, and Lisa busy in study alongside always finding a way to make him smile.
Then, one day, it changed.
It wasn't really his fault. Jeff had always struggled with his forgetting illness. Sometimes small things slipped from his mind, other times bigger things. That day… something important was forgotten. Something that set off a chain that ended in the unthinkable.
His cheerful, loving mother was....
The truth was, no one could blame an eight-year-old boy. But grief doesn't listen to truth. Grief makes monsters out of people who were once kind.
His father… broke. The man who used to lift Jeff onto his shoulders now looked at him like he was a stranger. Sometimes worse. He would mutter under his breath ugly words, words Jeff didn't even understand at first. Sometimes they came out like knives.
"You and your sister… she died because of you."
Lisa never let those words sit in Jeff's mind. She'd stand between them, telling their father to stop, to remember that Jeff was just a boy. She fought him in every way she could but not with fists, but with the fire in her voice. She never let her brother feel alone for long.
But still, Jeff felt it. The weight. The guilt that wasn't his to carry. It clung to him like a shadow.
His father stopped working. The house grew quieter and colder. The cupboards emptier. The bottle became his father's closest friend. And every time Jeff saw him drink, he could see that there was nothing left in his eyes—just a man trapped in his own anger.
Yet, even in those dark days, there was one line his father never crossed. He never laid a hand on them. Not once. But words can bruise deeper than any strike.
Lisa became more than a sister. She was a protector, teacher, mother. She took care of the little money they had, found ways to feed them, shielded Jeff from the worst of their father's rage. She carried her own grief while carrying him too.
Little Jeff was out of understanding the situation. He didn't find anything to do. What? Should he do some magic or rituals to make mother alive? But how?
He couldn't do anything but to get wet in a stormy rain. Screaming at the world,
" I will never forget anything from now!"
He himself fought back against his Amnesia. Sometimes the pain in his head gives him headache for 7-10 hours straight. He didn't knew what to do.
He used to stand in front of a river, a reflection of himself. He could throw jokes at it, telling how his today went to avoid the headache. And when he was mad, he threw stones at his own reflection even though it didn't give a thing.
....
"At least… my father is better than some.
He never raised a hand against me.
Never threw me out into the cold.
But still… I wonder.
Why should a parent need a reason to hate their own child?
Isn't a child a piece of them?
Their first proof that the world can still grow something pure?
Yet I've seen eyes turn sharp against their own blood.
I've heard lines that once sang lullabies
become storms that tear the roof away.
Maybe hate doesn't need a reason.
Maybe it's just pain looking for somewhere to land, and the smallest, weakest heart is the easiest target.
Still, I keep asking.
Because if a parent can hate their child…
then maybe love was never what I thought it was."
Jeff's blade locked with the cold, ghostly steel of Salis's consciousness. Sparks hissed in the fog, their breaths sharp, the stairwell trembling beneath each clash.
The clone's pale eyes held nothing human, only the will of something far away, pulling its strings.
Jeff gritted his teeth, every muscle burning. It's just a puppet, he told himself, but the weight of its strikes said otherwise.
Between the blows, a thought slipped through something soft, warm, completely out of place.
He saw her.
Sitting on the old wooden porch.
Waiting, hands on his cheek, smiling.
"I'll bring you berries," he had promised. "Next time I get back from work. The sweet ones you like."
The memory hurt worse than the enemy's blade.
He ducked under a slash, swept his leg, and sent the clone staggering. His heart pounded. Not just with the fight, but with the unshakable need to live long enough to keep that promise.
Jeff circled the clone, boots grinding on the cracked stone. The fog swirled between them like something alive. Salis's consciousness tilted its head, blade low, watching. Neither moved for a long breath.
Then Jeff stepped in swiftly. Steel clashed, sparks flashed. His strikes came sharper, timed perfectly. He ducked under a cut, spun, and slashed at the clone's side. It staggered.
Jeff's eyes narrowed. Now.
He pushed forward, forcing the clone back with a storm of blows. Each swing had a plan—block, feint, break, pierce. The clone met him, but its guard was slipping. A cut across its arm. Another at its chest. Jeff's heart pounded with the rush of having the upper hand.
"You're done," he whispered, breath hot in the cold air.
One last step in! One last swing! His sword came down—
—but the clone moved faster.
Jeff's body froze. A cold shock spread through him. He looked down. There was a hole in his throat. The blade had slipped in clean, almost gentle, then out again.
The strength in his hands vanished. His sword clattered on the stone. He tried to scream but instead he vomit blood.
Blood poured down his chest. His knees buckled.
He tried to breathe, but every breath came with a wet rattle. His vision swam the fog and the broken stairs blurring into each other.
The clone didn't move in for another strike. It started to walk toward Jeff slowly, like it was giving Jeff his last moments to remember....
Jeff's hands pressed against his throat, but the blood kept coming. He fell to his knees, then onto his side. The world was quiet now. The cold stone against his cheek.
His thoughts wandered.
The berries? I didn't bring them.
Vacation? I couldn't keep the promise.
A Hero? I couldn't even protect myself.
The sky above the broken stairs was just a gray smear in his eyes now. His chest rose once, then again, slower. His condition right there was like a fish outside of water, squirming in pain.
He thought to become a Hero, a Knight. Heroism is just the art of dying slowly for strangers who will forget your name. I reached for the stars, but all I held in the end… was dust? I know... I am an annoying person, yapping, screaming all the time. At least, I had some friends to talk, used to show me some respec—
In the next second, Salis's Ghost kicked at Jeff's head. Making the skull twist and his body to fall down from the stairs.
The clone stepped back into the fog, gone without a sound.